Saturnine
by Alda Rethe
Summary: Susan Kay-based. Set when Erik travels to Paris to build the Paris Opera House. What if, during his journey, our loverly Erik came across a girl who refused to leave him be? How would he be affected?
1. Fainting Thief

**Saturnine**

A/N: My first Phantom fic. Set during Susan Kay's Phantom, when Erik travels to Pairs (let's pretend he already visited Mademoiselle Perrault), hoping to help create the Paris Opera House with Charles Garnier. Forgive me if any facts/descriptions are inaccurate. I'm semi-retarded when it comes to checking my facts.

ButI know there's one big inaccuracy in this story (at least I _think_ it's an inaccuracy), but it's purposeful.

_Chapter One: Fainting Thief

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Erik's POV

The journey back to Paris was ghastly. The gloomy, rainy weather withheld nocturnal and daytime travel, delaying my progress through the abandoned forests and woodlands significantly.

The fact that I traveled through unmapped area also postponed my pace. Wary of unnecessary human contact I avoided routes of easy access, roads easily taken. Of course I trekked alone, with only my two aging mares as company, as per usual. I had learned years ago the consequences of company. Nadir had been a splinter beneath my fingernail when he had taken me to Persia. Yet I still missed him.

But, no. No more travel companions. I learn from my mistakes.

Unfortunately this journey became one of them.

At the end of a particularly bothersome day of relentless walking, in which little food or cover could be found, I created a fire underneath a forlorn-looking old oak tree, deciding that if, or more appropriately when, raindrops began to fall I 'd be sheltered, if not slightly. My durable cloak would provide me with more protection from the elements.

With my two mares safely tied up to a tree nearby, a blanket of wool over each of them, and a small fire burning steadily before me, I foolishly let my mind wander to plans for the opera house.

This opera house would be my final creation, the one I was meant to design. It would be the most beautiful building in all of France, no, Europe, and would not only be remembered for its astonishing beauty, but also for its mystery. Of course that would be if I had my way. Which I certainly would, despite any objections from Garnier or other likeminded fools who wished the opera house to be an unsightly building meant only for pompous aristocrats to gather on a daily basis. I couldn't let that happen.

Despite my thoughts I caught the sound of Rosetta, my white mare, whicker, startled, and I immediately banished my daydreams, focusing on the sound. My horses rarely made noise, unless a stranger was near. I had taught them to respond to me, my touch and voice alone. I had no need to tie them up at all, but it was for their own protection, I told them whenever they stomped a foot in protest. In case we ever encountered a thief. Which seemed to be now, apparently. Shangri La, my black mare, snorted, a confused sound and whickered like Rosetta had seconds before.

Someone was obviously meddling with my dears. Something I would not ever tolerate.

Silently, I turned to the intruder, to my horses, my suspicions confirmed. A figure was facing them, back towards me, petting Rosetta and Shangri La's muzzles hurriedly, trying to calm them into silence. I smirked at this vain attempt, and noiselessly rose to my feet. Of course any sound I made would have been hidden behind the crackle of the fire.

Sweet Shangri La had today managed to wedge two sharp rocks into two different hooves, and Rosetta limped mysteriously on her hind right foot, not only upsetting out travel pace but upsetting me as well. These mares did not deserve pain or suffering. No one did.

Unless said 'no one' was trying to steal from me.

In less than two seconds I had caught hold of the stunned intruder by the back of his collar and had him pinned to the dirt ground. With little thought I reached into my cloak, about to pull out my Punjab lasso, when I noticed that my intruder was distinctly female. "Well, mademoiselle," I stated coldly, "I had no idea that thievery was taught at finishing school."

The young lady in my hold snarled at me, appearing quite animal-like, despite her once fine clothing. The material of her dress seemed to be made of the best quality, yet dirtied by filth and torn somewhat by the wilderness. Her brown hair was tangled and in a mess, her face contorted in frustration at being caught. "Let me go," she demanded boldly.

I laughed frostily. "Mademoiselle, you are not in a position in which you can make an order that will be followed."

Her gender stayed my hand though. I had killed countless men, many for lesser crimes than touching my belongings, but had never murdered a woman. Something inside me wouldn't allow myself to. Perhaps it was because of my mother, or the fact that they were pushed and pulled around by men, like I was in my childhood, or maybe I pitied the weaker sex. Deep inside I thought them akin to spiders. A nuisance, but not worth harming.

I didn't allow myself to dwell on it though. I readjusted my grip on the girl, looking at her.

She squirmed in my grasp. Perhaps eighteen or twenty, just out of finishing school, she still had a life ahead of her. Her eyes met mine, and she faltered momentarily, gazing at my masked face, awe and shock evident in her stare. Then she spat, "Let me go, you loathsome beast!"

Long ago such a comment would hurt me. Now it only serves to anger me. Sarcastically, I hissed, "'Loathsome beast'? Mademoiselle, how astounding! Only a few moments in my presence, yet such an accurate description you've developed of me. Tell me, child, is it my hideous appearance that reveals this? Or perhaps my actions?"

She glared at me in silence, breathing in and out deeply, fuming. Realizing that she had no intention of answering me—though the question was rhetorical for the most part—I prepared to let her go. An unexpected and shocking pain near my groin stopped me. It took me a few seconds, through the unbearable sting, to understand that she had kneed me there, in a deeply sensitive spot. White and black swirls ran across my vision like white Bengal tigers. I blinked a few times, willing the extreme discomfort away, a growing rage replacing the pain.

_Oh, yes, Erik_. A mocking voice inside my head whispered sardonically, as I closed my eyes against the severe pain that refused to be ignored. _The weaker sex, indeed. She's not a weak harmless spider, oh no, but a terrible tarantula, and you should know better than to let your guard down! Has your miserable life taught you nothing? Get rid of the menace and be done with it!_

Fury swallowing reason, I yielded to the voice within. I quickly pulled her up from the ground and held her against a tree, left hand around her neck, holding her several inches off the ground. She gasped in disbelief and shock, but I couldn't hear her, as lost as I was in brooding thought. She attempted to free herself by hitting and kicking at me, but this, along with the suffering pain I had from her last blow, added more unneeded fuel to my fire, and I raised her up a few more inches by her neck.

As the anger and pain ebbed unhurriedly away I saw the girl's face, beneath the grime covering it, slowly turn a sick pallor. Suddenly recalling my promise of not killing to Nadir, and realizing that I was strangling this girl to death I released her immediately, disgusted with myself. She sunk to the ground, coughing and gasping for air.

I walked away from her shivering form to murmur words of reassurance to Shangri La and Rosetta, who nudged me gently, offering understanding and comfort in a small gesture. Retrieving a pouch of water from the fireside, I handed it to the girl, who looked at me in new alarm and caution.

"I may be a beast," I told her softly, "but I am not a cruel one."

Her energy gone, hysteria overwhelming her, she grew lifeless in a dead faint.

A fainting thief. How quaint.

In a single motion I removed my cloak and placed it over her.

Within minutes the evening cooled down considerably with fresh chilly raindrops descending from the sky.

Oddly enough I welcomed it.

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A/N: So? Love it? Hate it? Want more? Please tell me! 

All chapters will probably be this long, or longer.

Compliments and criticism embraced,

Alda


	2. Masked Man

**Saturnine**

A/N: Hope you enjoyed the first chapter. Thanks to all those who reviewed (irrelevant, MastersofNight, Nicole, babymene17, An Anti-Sheep Cheese Muffin,& Arda Silverlace)!

Perspectives (POVs) will be switching between chapters. So don't get confused but every time a POV changes it says so.

Disclaimer: Sadly I don't own Susan Kay's _**Phantom**_, or the characters found in any Phantom of the Opera related material. I'd buy the copyright bills if they were only sixty bucks, though.

_Chapter Two: Masked Man

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Girl's POV

I awoke to the rustle of thick material and the sound of horses nearby. Upon opening my eyes, a picture so absurdly dreamlike met me that I wondered if I was still asleep.

The masked man's piercing dark gaze told me otherwise. "Sleeping Beauty has awoken," he adjusted his cloak. He spoke in an emotionless voice, that revealed as much as his mask.

Briefly stunned, I stared at him. And then the events from last night caught up with me. "You almost murdered me!" I breathed, sitting up quickly.

"You almost stole my horses," he replied, standing up as I reached a sitting position. "One wrong turn deserves another, I think."

I gaped at him. This…this man was dangerous, I immediately decided. He knew it too. He walked away from me with an effortless grace; poise a dancer would die for, and hecould sneak up on one more quietly than a cat, as he demonstrated last evening. He was dressed all in black, when it was entirely hot and humid,the cloak hiding most of his body and who knew what weapons. (I realized that he had taken the heavy cloak off of me, moments before, causing me to wake.)

The mask covering half of his face gave him the most dangerous look of all. The look of one who has killed before. Why else would someone wear a mask if not to hid their murderous identity?

I had to be careful. Based solely on last night's events, this man appeared to have an ambivalenttemper, and I did not want to be on the receiving end of it once more. I touched my neck briefly, feeling a tender bruise. His eyes narrowed upon seeing this.

"Sir, I can explain my actions, concerning last night and your horses—" I began, hoping an explanation would help repel the contempt in his eyes.

"There will be no need of that," he said shortly.

"It is just that I'm trying to get to Paris to help my brother—"

"Mademoiselle." He sounded vexed.

"—He's an architect, a carpenter—"

"Mademoiselle."

"—He's building the Paris Opera House and—"

"The Paris Opera House?" I would have thought he was interested, but his expression remained the same.

"Yes, sir. That is where I am headed. My brother wants my opinion on the framework and setup." I ran a hand through my hair nervously, and grimaced upon discovering how tangled and matted it was. "By any chance do you have a comb? A hair brush, perhaps?" I asked hesitantly.

He must have been deep in thought when I asked him this, because he gave me a rathersurprised look at my inquiry. His eyes, dark and yet light at the same time, went from my face to my hair and gradually made the connection. In a few elegant steps he took a hairbrush out of a bag near the horses and handed it to me with a gloved hand. I stared at the accessory.

The brush was prettily carved out of a precious metal. The handle appeared to be a turtle's head and neck; the brush was its shell. Jewels decorated the back of the brush. "Did you steal this?" I questioned in wonder. The look he gave me was distinctly annoyed and I fell silent and began to brush my hair.

As I did so he strode back and forth in his little camping area, collecting items, packing them up, dousing the fire, grooming the two horses, with a frown on his face all the while...

His frown reminded me of how Father will undoubtedly feel upon discovering my absence. I couldn't very well tell him that I was going to Paris to assist Charles. Father disowned Charles a few years ago when he went into carpentry instead of medicine, going against Father's wishes by doing so. I had no say in it, seeing as I'm just a girl and Mother's dead, but Charles and I have always been close confidants, only five years apart.

Father will likely assume that I've been abducted, when in fact I've merely sold a few expensive frivolous trinkets bought for me by admirers throughout the years to gain travel to Paris. Yesterday though I had sold my last piece and thought all hope was lost, until I wandered upon this…man's horses and tried in vain to borrow one.

I think my predicament has worsened considerably since yesterday.

I studied the man before me. _Who's to say he won't abduct me?_ I wondered silently.

As if sensing my uneasy thoughts, the cloaked man stopped what he was doing, which was cleaning the ink-black horse's front hoof. He had removed his gloves for his task and I noticed how pale his hands were. _Like a doll's porcelain skin_, I thought. But that was where the similarities ended, for he had long slender fingers and hands that looked accustomed to work, unlike a doll's chubby fragile hands. I gulped, suddenly feeling sick remembering those fingers wrapping around my neck effortlessly, as if I were a bird about to have its neck wrung. The bruises on my neck throbbed painfully.

He gave the blackmare back the use of its leg, stroking theher momentarily and then scratching the white mare's forehead before walking towards me, pausing to take something out of a bag on his way. He held a small glass container of some sort of cream out to me. I looked at it, then him, questioningly, cursing my ignorance.

"It is a hyssop, calendula, comfrey and arnica salve," he said simply, but I still didn't understand. "It should alleviate any pain if you rub it into your bruises. Do not get any in your eyes though. It may render you blind." He spoke with such frankness and aloofness that I was uncertain for a moment ifit was hewho had given me the bruises. He spoke to me as if he were a doctor with no connections of any sort. This angered me for some reason.

Father always said that I was as unpredictable as the sea and Charles swore sometimes I was more deadly than a madman with a hammer. At times like this one, when I have an overwhelming desire to speak my mind, I don't doubt either of them.

I snatched the container from him, and stood up, bristling. "I beg your pardon, monsieur, but it was you who inflicted these bruises upon me. Have you forgotten? I do not want ointment for what you did, I want an apology," recalling his earlier sarcasm, I added, "An honest one."

Something flickered behind the man's eyes. I could not see the full effect of it due to the mask veiling half of his face, but whatever it was made him appear taller, gave his features a foreboding and a disturbingly powerful appearance. "An honest apology, mademoiselle, is something you shall never receive. Not you or any being in the world, for that matter."

I glared at the difficult, indifferent man, contemplating throwing something at him. Yet I felt quite sure that if I hurled something at him, he may very well heave something back at me.

And God knows I have horrible aim.

Judging by this man's actions last night, I suspected his aim wouldn't be so imperfect.

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A/N: I don't know how long this phanfic will be. It's meant to be a short story but one never knows sometimes, eh?

Oh, and the title of this fic, saturnine, is a word which describes how Erik usually acts. Sullen, sardonic, melancholy.I thought it fit.

Brownie points to anyone who can (discreetly) tell me who this girl's related to. I think it's fairly obvious, but, hey, I'm the author. I'd know.

Here's to summer happiness!

Alda


	3. Travel Companion

**Saturnine**

A/N: This chapter takes place directly after the last one. You may wanna reread the last section of the 2nd chapter to understand the beginning.

Brownie points to Babymene17 and Mademoiselle Phantom. Good job! You two were correct (noble effort, Arda Silverlace)!

_Disclaimer_: At beginning of 2nd chapter.

_Chapter Three: Travel Companion**

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Erik's POV

The girl is a bother. An increasing bother. If all members of the opposite-sex are this aggravating, I've been wise all these years to avoid them.

Since the moment she awoke her eyes have not left me. Yet another reason I plan to be rid of her as soon as possible. I find her quite inquisitive, childishly so, for her own good. The one thing I loathe the most, besides pity, is curiosity.

Nothing good comes from curiosity.

I've found that company, once vacant for a long period, can become greatly unwelcomed and unsettling once it returns.

Attacking her was a mistake, I knew that. I hadn't realized that it was a woman thieving from me, until capturing her. I regretted touching her in such a brutal way for now it wasn't my appearance that vindicated my brutality, but my actions. She didn't need any more reason to be frightened of me so I attempted to redeem myself with the hairbrush and ointment. Her emotions changed quickly though, from coyness to anger in an instant. Just one more attribute in people I find to be rather annoying. Animals are not so irrational as humans. They always have a reason and display signs, warnings, before they strike.

This girl doesn't. One moment she is brushing her hair, the next, questioning my authority.

"And why not?" she inquired, in retort to me refusing to apologize to anyone in the world, including her. "What have you against the world, then?"

_Everything_.

"That is a story for another day," was my cool reply. I turned my back to her to signal that the conversation was at an end. The mademoiselle didn't take the hint.

"Oh?" She spoke mockingly and I glanced at her. She raised an eyebrow delicately, giving me the impression that, despite her clothing, she was from a proud, well-off family. "Then what is today's story, pray tell? The story of what tragic events led you to your isolation? A description of how you gained your horses? Or, perhaps an enthralling tale of how you came to accost and strangulate me?"

"You tried to pilfer my mares, mademoiselle," I reminded her. She also tried to disable me. Both worthy reasons for resentment in my mind.

Yet I didn't find her horribly intolerable. Not yet at least. But she was growing tiresome what with her aristocratic talk and sass.

Rosetta nickered behind, prompting me to my journey. I doubted I would get far if this discussion continued.

She stomped her foot. "I did not try to _steal_ them. I was hoping to borrow one. I would have brought it back later on." I doubted this, seeing as she would have a difficult time locating me 'later on.'

"And I do have a name, you know," she added, evidently miffed at my continuous and overly polite use of 'mademoiselle.' "It's—" But I interrupted her, for she was talking far too much for my liking.

"I do not care. I have no interest in your name. Or your motives, for that matter." I suppose the words I uttered seemed vague and dubious to her for she misinterpreted my meaning entirely. Pure panic crossed over her face as she took a few steps away from me.

"I simply wish to carry on with my journey in solitude," I supplemented further. Pitiful girl. She misread my meaning completely, extracting a deep terror within herself that all women must harbor against men. I've seen it before. The harem virgin in Persia positively shook with such fear when she saw me.

_Perhaps it is only a horror harbored against ugliness like you_, a nasty little voice sang in my head. I ignored it.

The girl visibly relaxed at these last words. Now that she had brushed her hair and regained some color in her features I realized that she was actually attractive, in a way. Her hair was brown and curled down below her shoulders. Her young and naturally pale face held no makeup, just dust and dirt. Her green eyes studied me warily.

"What do you mean, monsieur?" My God, this girl is persistent _and_ dense.

"If I give you a horse can you get to Paris independently?" I asked coldly, making up my mind.

She gave me a startled look. "What? Why?"

I sighed deeply. "You irritate me," I said frankly, "and am apparently frightened silly of me as well. You also seem to want to get to Paris desperately. I hardly wish to hinder you." I didn't want to do it (Shangri La and Rosetta would loathe me for giving one of them away so freely), but it felt necessary. I wanted this girl thousands of miles away from me. All humanity I wanted far far away. It was one of the reasons I refused to listen to her causes for trying to steal Shangri La, reasons to go to Paris, and even her name. Such obscure details would only serve as an unneeded distraction in my life, and I didn't care.

I wasn't _supposed_ to care, I told myself whenever I felt a bit of concern stir for a fellow human being, such as this girl. A horrid monster like myself should care about no one but himself.

The green-eyed girl gripped the hairbrush with the tortoise on it. A token I brought back from Persia. "You're…you're mad," she muttered at last. I took that as an assent.

"A common reaction to my rationale, mademoiselle. Hopefully the last I'll have to witness." I strode over to my mares, untying them both. After stroking Shangri La's dark muzzle in farewell, I gave the girl her reins. "This, mademoiselle, is Shangri La. She's quite kind. A pack of supplies lie across her rump. Sell the brush if you run out of provisions. Paris is northwest of here. _Au revior_."

I had already mounted Rosetta, with the rest of my bags secured across her front, when I heard the girl cry at me to wait. "Please, monsieur! I do not know the way!"

"Of course you do. It is a northwestern course. A lady of class such as yourself should have been taught common direction long ago."

"B-but…you are headed northwest, monsieur!" She said quickly, calculating my position, holding Shangri La's reins still, and trying to climb unsuccessfully onto her as she spoke.

"Your point, mademoiselle?"

"You are going to Paris too, are you not?"

I kept my face blank and didn't answer.

"Can I not accompany you?"

What an ignorant and naïve child! Ask the strange man who choked you to bring you to Paris. What if I were a villainous rapist? A murderer of children? Stupid girl.

"No, you cannot." I said, firmly.

Her face fell and she ceased her attempts at ascending Shangri La. "Why not? You are going to Paris, like me. Please—"

"No, mademoiselle. It will not happen."

"Why not?" Such stubbornness.

"I believe you can figure out that answer." Actually, perhaps not. She doesn't strike me as the brightest jewel in the shah's treasure chest, metaphorically speaking.

"If it is a matter of money, my brother would gladly pay you for your service."

"What a kind philanthropist he must be!" I muttered sarcastically.

"Oh, but he is!" She exclaimed, annoyed by my comment. "He's Charles Garnier, and he's designing the new Paris Opera House that's in construction at the moment."

I froze. Garnier? The Parisian architect? I wasn't aware he had a sister.

Seizing my silence as another chance, the girl pleaded with me once more. "Please, monsieur. I must get to Paris. I will not be a disturbance for you, I swear. Let me come."

If I were to speak to Garnier about the opera house, this dim girl may prove useful in persuading him about the design plans. It wouldn't be too gentlemanly of me to use her as blackmail but, alas, I gave up on being a gentleman long ago.

Heaving a great sigh, I dismounted. "Very well. You shall come." Before she could interrupt I added, "but there are some guidelines you must follow. Listen to everything I tell you, do what I ask of you, do not talk to me unless absolutely necessary, do not disturb me when I am submerged in work and do not touch me. Is that understood?"

Puzzled, yet hardly deterred, she nodded.

Inevitably, I asked her for her name. "Morgan Eleanor Garnier, monsieur." She answered promptly.

"Well, Mademoiselle Garnier, allow me to explain to you the proper way to ride a horse. Shangri La will not put up with such pathetic horsemanship."

Rosetta gave me a confused snort and Shangri La shook her main disapprovingly, as I enlightened the girl. I understood their meanings completely.

It seemed that I had gained us a new travel companion.

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A/N: Well, now the mystery girl has a name. About time of me, too. I felt silly writing "Girl's POV" last time. Now it will be "Morgan's POV." A bit more charming, I think.

Reviews are appreciated and squirreled away conveniently in my Persian Monkey music box,

Alda


	4. Morgan

**Saturnine**

A/N: The beginning is different and this chapter is sorta slow, but bear with me, please. I think it'll help with the storyline. Wait—do I even have a storyline? Pause. Yeah, yeah, I do.

Phew. Scared myself for a moment there.

Thanks to all you spiffy reviewers. You know I love you guys.

_Chapter Four: Morgan_

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**Dear Charles,**

**You've no idea how difficult and awkward it is for me, your dear father, to call upon you like this after a year of ignoring our blood relation. I still have significant trouble comprehending why you've forsaken medicine in order to do something so common as architecture, which is of so much lesser value than medicine. Yet I digress. I've written you because of a much more important crisis.**

**It is about Morgan. She disappeared from our house a few days ago, I do not know how or why. She was safely drawing the moment I left to check on a sick blacksmith, and when I returned I could not find her at all. She was gone, along with precious trinkets that belonged to your mother once. **

**I strongly suspect that thieving, vile gypsies captured my dear little Morgan. I cannot even entertain the possibility that she is dead. There is nothing left I can do here at home but pray. The local leader sent a few people out to search for her, but all in vain. I send this letter in hopes that you will assist me in finding her, and send her back home when you do. I'm sure such a tragic and scarring experience has greatly frazzled her and all I wish to do is comfort my little girl. I miss her deeply.**

**I hope we can put our differences aside for the time being,**

**John Maurice Garnier**

**Your Father**

Rereading his letter, John Garnier scowled deeply. Who was he joking? Charles wouldn't help him, even if it were for his sister's benefit. He feared that Charles hated him with a far deeper passion than Charles loved Morgan. It would be a waste to even try.

With a frustrated cry, he tossed the letter into the crackling fireplace and watched, immobile, as the flames swallowed up the parchment in seconds. The last word he could make out was a sad-looking, beseeching word that clutched his breaking heart.

_Morgan_.

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Morgan's POV

What a saturnine countenance my masked guide possesses!

He's yet to tell me his name, or take off his mask. And even eat for that matter. It is as if I am traveling with a skeleton with no name, no face and no need for nourishment. It is rather disconcerting to say the least.

His horse, Shangri La, is nice, if it's any consolation. She was the black horse that I had attempted, to no avail, to take.

She is patient, unlike her master.

After the man had coolly instructed me on how to mount correctly, hold the reins, and guide the horse, he allowed me to try with Shangri La (what an unusual name) who nipped me, only once, when I grabbed her mane to keep from falling. This earned me quite a scolding from the monsieur.

"Mademoiselle! Kindly do not assault my mare. You'll go on foot if this occurs again."

I feel compelled to point out that the nip and reprimand could have been avoided if the man had helped me onto Shangri La to begin with. But no, he seems to have an aversion to contact, ever since he almost choked me to death.

Not that I mind, this aversion, but it is rather curious. Usually a man seeks a woman's touch.

Once he made sure I could handle my horse we continued on the journey to Paris. We traveled on a path that didn't seem to even be there and we passed no one.

I had hoped to show my gratitude at his consent to take me to Paris through conversation. I attempted to make conversation, asked him questions, tried to learn his name, but he brushed aside all my words as if they were pesky flies. He reminded me of the rules I agreed to—no touching, disturbing, _talking_, or disobeying—and stated in a slightly melodious voice, "Irk me any further and the side of this forlorn path is where you'll find yourself."

How rude!

After that I kept to myself, passing the time by watching the scenery, humming to myself and daydreaming about Charles' wonderful Opera House. I was just as eager as him to see it be completed. I was somewhat of an artist, with a few lessons from an instructor, I was able to draw and sketch buildings as well as Charles. I had a couple ideas ready, to help him in his design, if need be.

We rode the whole day through the forest without any more talk. Frequently I caught the man watching me from out of the corner of my eye and this unsettled me to no end. He made it perfectly clear to me that he disliked my presence from the very beginning, but if that were true, why would he study me so closely? And then quickly place his gaze elsewhere when I glanced at him?

I had trouble believing he was simply doing this to correct my stance on the horse, which he did occasionally.

Was he attracted to me? Perhaps. But this was difficult to believe too. Though he was handsome in a mysterious way and apparently strong, he was also incredibly unfriendly and aloof. I don't think he was used to company.

Yet why should I care? I asked myself. It is not as if I like him.

"Monsieur," I began, when I noticed him watching me again. It was becoming increasingly unbearable. His gaze was powerfully heavy. "What in heaven's name are you staring at?"

He spoke without pause and didn't sound at all embarrassed at being caught. "Why, you, of course. Those bruises on your neck are growing rather unsightly. Put some of the salve on them, won't you?"

I stared at him, my mouth agape, shocked at this sudden and odd response. How dare he? The absolute gall and insolence of this man! At home, my father would have instantly cuffed this man for such language directed at me, a lady. Such utter disrespect!

"Never in my life have I been spoken to so rudely!" I cried in umbrage. He continued to look ahead, not even glancing at me now, but he quirked his only visible eyebrow in my direction. "Oh?"

This mocking little reply further insulted me. "Oh, indeed! You hardly have the right to call yourself a gentleman, monsieur. What with your discourtesy and hiding behind that mask of yours…tell me, what are you hiding from, hmm?"

"You'd rather not know, Mademoiselle Garnier, I promise you." He scanned our surroundings. Involuntarily, I noticed how green his eyes were. Like emeralds.

"Don't be dippy. I know what I want and I would very much like to know and see why you wear that mask. Care to enlighten me, monsieur?"

He released a discouraged sigh. "It is growing late. We stop here for today." He stopped his mare, Rosetta, and dismounted.

I rolled my eyes at his back. "Insufferable soul," I muttered, descending Shangri La clumsily, well aware that he had avoided my query entirely.

We were still in the forest, despite our steady pace. I settled myself against a particularly tall tree with a thick trunk that provided sturdy support when I leaned against it. Ignoring my guide, I drew my knees up before me and procured a piece of parchment and a charcoal pencil from out of my dress sleeve. Taking great care to appear busy, I sketched random shapes and objects on it as he secured the horses together, gathered wood for a small fire, and unpacked supplies for a brief meal.

He went about his tasks with the ease that comes from daily routines. It was growing darker by the moment so eventually all I could see of him in his black cloak was his white mask, which held for striking contrast against the blooming darkness. Soon I wouldn't be able to see my parchment at all.

The masked man built the fire near the tree I was leaning against, which I found strangely thoughtful. When he lit the fire, I was bathed in a cheerful orange glow that revived my drawing from the blackness.

I gave the man a half-smile of thanks that he probably didn't even see and looked back down at my sketch. My mind wasn't focused on it though. Instead I was thinking about this strange man before me, wondering what his true intentions were. He spoke to me as if I was a mangy flea-infested dog, tagging along behind a prince, but his actions stated differently, I believed.

He must be fond of me, if only a little, I thought, my pencil poised on the parchment. Why else would he have given me his cloak when I fainted? Or take me to Paris? Perhaps this man is not as monstrous as I first perceived.

A metal cup of hot tea was pushed in my direction. "Here," he said softly, as if not wanting to disrupt my train of thought or artistic stimulation.

"Merci."

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A/N: Hmm. Awkward chapter. But I'm trying to get things moving. Feedback wanted!

Erm, the next chapter probably won't be up soon. My cousin is visiting. I must entertain.

Review?

Alda


	5. Bright Tonight

**Saturnine **

A/N: A million thanks and a gazillion hugs (or Phantom plushies, which ever you want) to those who reviewed! This includes babymene17, MastersofNight and Arda Silverlace. I couldn't do it without you steadfast reviewers!

Please forgive me for the unforgivably long time it took for me to update. I have no reason, except for the fact that school starts today. So much for summertime.

_Chapter Five: Bright Tonight

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Erik's POV

The girl—Morgan—drank her tea slowly, staring into the fire. The flames flickered across her face, making lineaments glow. The shadows beneath her eyes and the bruises on her neck grew more prominent. I could not help but note that those bruises were of my own horrible doing.

Mentally, I chastised myself for my foolish strategy, or maybe lack thereof. If I wished for this girl to influence her brother into letting me build the new opera house with my own blueprints (because I was sure that this Charles Garnier would never allow me this honor unless I actually killed the man) I should be kinder to her. Or at the very least, not so unfriendly and unpleasant. All acts of anger and annoyance should cease. I've heard of tales where much can be accomplished with a bit of kindness and patience.

Yes, just tales. I wouldn't know in reality. My mother must have never been exposed to these aforementioned stories; otherwise my life would undoubtedly be completely different.

I frowned though, closing my eyes briefly. This would not be easy. I, Erik, who possess numerous characteristics, have yet to master tolerance. It is a worthy adversary for one who was prejudiced against and shunned all his life.

Opening my eyes, I glanced at Morgan. She had returned to her piece of parchment, truly sketching this time, tea abandoned. Earlier, I had been reluctant to disturb her. It is difficult to find inspiration, but all the easier to loose it. In all arts—music, poetry, song, even illustration—this is the case. So I did not speak to her, just listened to the melody of the forest night and watched her draw.

I decided that this was an honorable act of kindness.

With no desire for food, human company or many other things people normally crave, a thirst for knowledge and art were my only escapes from the cruelties of reality. Music is a form of life, a type of religion, I've discovered. Mere mundane mortals are not aware of this. But all things, living or not, have an aura, give off whispers. These auras blend together and fuse, producing sounds, melodies, and music. Air or water, when combined with something as precious as trees or stones, can harmonize as sweetly as any church choir.

At the moment, the trees above us rustled and murmured gently as a zephyr caressed their branches and leaves. All trees respond differently to wind, rain, sunshine, all elements. The leaves on a small ash tree shake quicker in the wind than that of an oak's. The thick leaves of a mahogany tree soak up sunlight swifter than the tiny leaves of an orange. And willow tree's leaves shudder so in the rain, giving it the echo of laughter, while a young sapling can hardly be seen in the rain, can hardly be heard above the murmurs of the others.

An owl hooted in the distance, by the sound of it's harsh call, a screech owl. Behind me, Rosetta and Shangri La swished their tails lazily. A moth buzzed near the flames. Ah, the symphony of animals. If I were as stupid as most, I'd say that Our Creator is extraordinarily magical; this God individual creates the most brilliant beings. But what merciful and magical deity would in his right mind create me? An angel up in heaven must have been shirking their duty when this fiend of a baby was born…

With a reasonable amount of surprise I become conscious of the fact that Morgan was staring at me. But not with the look of fright and contempt I was accustomed to seeing reflected in the eyes of ignorant men and naïve women. This look—her eyes—was different…filled with an emotion I couldn't recognize.

When she realized that I was staring right back at her, her gaze quickly fell to her parchment again and she hastily sipped her tea. The girl shifted on her place on the ground nervously.

Beneath my mask, I scowled. Still afraid of old Erik, I see. _Well, you've given the girl no reason _not _to be afraid of you_, the familiar voice muttered reasonably in my head. Bitterly, I could only agree.

But this will soon change.

"Um," Morgan began hesitantly, putting down her tea and glancing at me, "If you don't terribly mind me asking, monsieur, why do you wear that mask?"

Curiosity. How I loathe it in others. I refused to reply, glaring at an ant near my foot. The insect steadily crept onto a fallen leaf. I contemplated crushing it, wishing that crushing inquisitiveness were just as effortless.

_Not so unfriendly and unpleasant, eh?_ the voice mocked, readily.

Sighing loudly, I raised my head up to face her. Upon seeing my dark look, the girl did nothing, but I could see that her mind was flooding with doubts. What sort of creature had she become aquatinted with? I forced out an answer to the question I've been asked repeatedly since leaving the gypsy circus. "It is more so for your protection than it is for my own, mademosille. People often cannot accept things they are not accustomed to." And who would ever grow accustomed to me? Even my mother took extra care not to touch or look at me.

The fact that I had not swiftly rebuked her in response, as my appearance had suggested, seemed to give Morgan some courage. She leaned forward and looked at me over the orange flames of the bonfire. "What do you mean, monsieur?"

"I mean exactly what I said, Mademoiselle Garnier. The world is a cruel place; those who walk it rarely believe that persons who are different from the masses in appearance can be alike in heart and mind."

Morgan pondered this as I went to put blankets on Shangri La and Rosetta—the night was indeed growing cold. When I returned and gave the girl two wool blankets, she wrapped one around her shoulders and then said meticulously, "So I take it that you didn't have a very cheerful childhood, due to this…your face?"

Pulling my cloak closer around me to block out the chill I gave a short gruff reply. "Correct."

"Ah," her face contorted with sadness, "I'm sorry."

I blinked. No one had ever said that to me. No one has ever apologized to me for the cards I was dealt. Ever. The fact that I could receive such warmth and compassion from a girl I'd only just met, while my mother wouldn't so much as embrace me, let alone comfort me, was both unsettling and touching.

For the first time in my life I was silent, not out of choice, but for lack of words. I focused on the cheerful chirps of the concealed crickets in the forest.

Clearly unaware of how her response had affected me, Morgan asked another question. She still sounded depressed, but must have thought speaking to me would cheer her up or at least distract her.

"What is your name, monsieur?"

Startled out of my thoughts, I whispered, "A name is a sacred thing, child."

"Yes, I know. That is why I am asking you for your's." She sounded impatient.

After a second, I answered, "When you give someone your name, you grant them a certain type of power over you, are you aware of that? With a name, you can spread lies and false truths, possibly even strike fear or foreboding in others. A name can be tossed about easily enough, but can mean the world to some people. There are those who would murder for a name, a petty title. And for those reasons and more, I find it much more pleasant for you to just call me 'monsieur,' while I politely address you as, "mademoiselle'."

Morgan gave me a puzzled look. "So you won't be telling me your name, then?"

The girl is agreeable enough, but terribly oblivious to the obvious.

"No, I will not. And if you have no further questions I suggest—"

"Do you have a profession, monsieur?" She asked swiftly before I could order her to sleep and leave me alone.

"Yes, many."

"Such as…?" she prompted.

_A circus freak!_ The voice in my head laughed. I ignored it.

After a second's thought, I held out my hands, palms forward to the fire, so she could see that they were empty. I turned them over and then back and forth so she could be sure of this. Morgan watched me, unsure yet engrossed. Then, with a flourish of my left hand, a blue emerald appeared in its palm. A second elegant flourish and another jewel emerged. Morgan gasped appreciatively.

"Magician," I said in clarification. With a flick of my wrist, the two gems vanished. "Now look in your pocket."

She did so, and with an awed exclamation, held up the emeralds. "Good heavens! How did you do that?"

"Simple legerdemain tricks. Gypsies taught me." Not willingly, but they were too frightened to refuse me when I asked, fearing that I'd feed them to my mystical dragon.

"Oh my." Morgan moved to return the jewels, "You're really quite good."

I waved a hand at her to dissuade this action. "Keep them, I have no use for gemstones." I had only snatched them from the Shah's treasure box in Persia out of sheer boredom. The man should really have taken better care of his belongings. Nadir was a horrible sentinel for the Shah's prized possessions.

"Oh, no. I couldn't do that," she said hurriedly.

"Why ever not?" I said wearily. "You had no issue on taking Shangri La last evening."

In an instant, Morgan grew from polite to angry. "That is an entirely different matter, monsieur!"

I tilted my head to one side. "Is it, now?"

"Yes!" she shrieked, outraged. "When I attempted to take Shangri La, I had no idea she was yours and I felt dreadful for taking her without permission and for even trying to steal her, but I cannot accept this bequest because I feel so guilt about my past feat towards you and these are rightfully yours and I---_what are you laughing at?_"

I had jerked my head backwards and laughed loudly at Garnier's fury during her rant, her tone and each word simply encouraging me to continue. This girl thought that she could intimidate me through her feelings of remorse? Erik cannot be intimidated!

"I expect you are more upset about being caught in the act than you are about actually attempting it, yes, my dear?" I laughed in amusement once more.

Morgan uttered a frustrated sound in my direction and flung an emerald at me. Catching it smoothly, I tossed it back to her, careful not to hit her. I allowed the girl this small pretense of irritation, seeing as it was more comical than it was harmful.

"I advise you to sleep now, mademoiselle," I instructed, voice still light with humor. "At dawn we will be riding again. Paris is no more than a few days away."

Muttering in quite an unladylike fashion, Morgan grudgingly replaced the gems in her dress pocket and tucked her charcoal pencil and parchment up her sleeve. Laying out one blanket beneath her, and then covering herself with the other, she closed her eyes, casting one last look at me.

With an easy sigh, I glanced up at the stars, which were impossibly bright tonight.

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A/N: Ah, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince was a FANTASTIC read! I laughed, I cried. Seriously. Or should I say 'Sirius-ly.' Go and read it, _please_. Or else I'll…I'll…er…throw you off the topmost tower of…uh…the Opera Populaire!

Phantom dreams,

Alda


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